


Something with Feathers

by xkingevelynx (ebony_dove)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), He is not having a good time, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Its probably me, M/M, No Beta, Purple Prose, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Someone is having a midlife crisis, my dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25293640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebony_dove/pseuds/xkingevelynx
Summary: Crowley had given him a squeeze as if to say ‘I am here, we are going to be okay’ and the angel had smiled back at him as if he understood. Something soft and hopeful had fluttered in the demon’s ribcage. Something built warm and fragile, something with feathers.And for a moment, Crowley thought that this was almost enough.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Something with Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> This story is sponsored by purple prose, sadness and 'swallowed in the sea' (by Coldplay) Cheers!

Crowley smiles at the animated way that Aziraphale gestures while he talks.  
He looks so bright, so incandescently happy, sometimes it nearly hurts to look at him. As if the brightness welling up inside of him Is scorching through his clothes into his skin.

It`s one of the things that he adores about Aziraphale, he loves everything with such passion. The other angels aren’t like that. Crowley could sit here for days listening to Aziraphale babble on excitedly about every little thing he loves. Crowley can hope that one day he might be one of them.

The bookshop was still whole and undamaged, not a scorch or stain of soot remained. Adam, it seemed, had put everything back to rights.1

...

Without the looming threat of heaven and hell at their door, the two settled into a thoughtful haze of alcohol and conversation. Aziraphale was rambling again, very happy, and very much drunk. For Crowley, however, the wine had turned his thoughts from sentimental to Maudlin and that was never a good sign

“-And they come up with the most wonderful things” Aziraphale chatters, perched onto beside him on the loveseat. “-do you know the humans have figured out a way to fry ice cream? Humans are so terribly clever! don’t you think?’ He says as he leans forward, nearly spilling his Château Pontet-Canet as Crowley nods his head and tries to block out memories of all the other terribly clever things that humans have come up with.

_Like the Spanish inquisition._

the wine turns bitter and what starts out as an enjoyably hazy flush, coils its thorny fingers around his self-doubt, and turns his thoughts maudlin. in no time at all one bottle turns into three and then five and suddenly Crowley can hardly focus on anything but his own sour thoughts and how the room blurs around the edges.

There was Armageddon, and then there was nothing. No war, no great plan, just two advisories with too much time, a case of wine, and 6,000 years of unresolved words between them.

After six thousand years he doesn’t know what else to do with all that longing. So he tucks it into a little wooden box and buries it beneath his garden, underneath the pink camellia, perhaps, safe but never quite forgotten. He would never even pass by where it was buried if that meant that he could sit here for the rest of time listening to his angel prattle on and on about some long-dead poet he’s only ever heard about from all his previous lectures.

He thinks… if he drinks a little more it might blot out his thoughts, make them swim until he feels like he`s drowning in something other than himself for a while.

By the time Crowley makes the effort to drag his thoughts back to the present, Aziraphale has circled back to gushing over the brilliance of Yeats, and Byron and Crowley is distracted by the way the principalities body is nearly vibrating with happiness.

Crowley realizes (not for the first time) that he would give up anything for him. If only he asked. all of his heart aching love, his unwelcome longing, every desperate fantasy, every hopeful brush of fingers, every silent prayer of _‘God, why won`t he kiss me?’_

The worst. _The worst,_ is that he knows that Aziraphale loves him too, it`s in his nature after all. It`s the simple truth about angels, they love everything and nothing in particular. Their love is spread equally, indiscriminately, like a fine layer of dust and disinterest over all creation.  
Aziraphale may love Crowley more than any other angel ever could. But Aziraphale loves Crowley in the same way he loves summer mornings and his bookshop and a full-bodied glass of Chateauneuf de Pas

_And somehow that knowledge makes everything infinitely worse._

Crowley is so very tired of pretending because heaven and hell might be off their backs but was that really what was stopping them? Was the idea of heavenly wrath all that had stilled his best friend`s fingers from reaching out? Had stopped him when Crowley had begged for them to run away together, twice. He was planning on asking a third as he raced to the bookshop, only to be met with the sight of his entire world collapsing under a wall of flame and burning ash.

...

Aziraphale pauses, and for a moment shoot him a look of concern, Crowley nods encouragingly and the angel distractedly picks back up where he`s left off.

Just the thought sets off a blistering ache in his chest, something he`s grown acquainted with on those suffocatingly, lonely nights, when his bed feels like it’s going to swallow him whole. Because Aziraphale loves Crowley in the way he loves cool summer nights, fresh crepes, and a well-read book,

But Crowley, _Crowley_ loves Aziraphale the way a drowning man loves a life raft.

...

Something on his face must have changed because the angel has stopped speaking and is fixing Crowley with such a look of concern that the demon`s heart lurches in his chest.

“Are you alright dear boy?” Aziraphale murmurs, soft, brows wrinkled in concern. “You`ve hardly spoken all night”  
he hadn’t realized how overbearing the silence had been until it was broken.

Crowley means to speak, to reassure him that nothing is wrong, that everything is _‘just peachy‘ I`ve just been in love with you for the last 6,000 years and I `ve just realized that you’re never going love me back.’_

Instead, the sound that leaves his throat is a wet, strangled whine.  
Crowley bites his tongue, presses it against the backs of his teeth, and stutters out.  
“-S`right, just, ugh…. tired”  
“Oh,” says Aziraphale.” I could pull out some blankets for you if you`d like to have a rest? The couch is rather cozy”  
“Nn-no, it`s alright” he sputters and winces into the neck of another bottle of wine.  
the angel nods slowly, unconvinced, but evidently chose not to press.

.Crowley finishes off the rest of the case. The slow burn of alcohol replaced with a dull throbbing numbness. A false sense of peace that leaves him feeling loose and reckless. He knows he should go home, back to his empty flat where the only sound will be his own padding feet and the silent buzz of plant life. Just another thing to pour his love into that can never love him back

He realizes he`s been silent for too long again when he feels Aziraphale`s eyes watching him cautiously. He`s stopped talking, stopped any pretense of carrying on a conversation without Crowley`s participation. The silence might have flooded the bookshop if it wasn`t for the steady click of the pendulum, counting the spaces between answers neither of them are willing to give. Crowley knows he should sober up, but he isn`t ready to face sobriety just yet. Not when Aziraphale, silent Aziraphale, is wearing anxious patches into his coat and looking at him like he`s some poor, wounded creature he`s found on the side of the road.

...

Crowley knows he`s a fool.  
A fool who can`t stop recalling Aziraphale's fingers cradled so gently between his.

_He remembers the warmth, radiating up into his chest, flooding the void where a mother’s love should have been. He watched the night darkened streets flicker by in a copper-toned blur. The Lamp lights skittered over Aziraphale's form, drawing the demon's eyes to the shadows on his temple, to the soft roll of skin that gathered just below the cleft of his chin. He`d blushed the most fetching shade of pink as his eyes darted anywhere but their intertwined fingers._

_Crowley had given him a squeeze as if to say ‘I am here, we are going to be okay’ and the angel smiled back at him as if he understood. Something soft and hopeful had fluttered in the demon’s ribcage. Something built warm and fragile, something with feathers._

_And for a moment Crowley thought, it was almost enough._

_Then the bus lurched to a shuddering halt. Their stop arriving far sooner than Crowley thought it should have and without a word, Aziraphale had dropped their hands and risen to his feet, quiet, almost distracted. And just like that, the fantasy had begun to unravel at his feet like broken spool._

  
...

The realization hits Crowley after the sixth bottle with such drunken clarity that he is nearly barreled over by it. Why does it matter what heaven or hell thinks anymore?  
It`s an unexpected epiphany, _What is one more rejection from Aziraphale? When has he ever let fear stop him when there was even the smallest chance of getting Aziraphale's attention? Of the possibility that Aziraphale might want him back?_

Crowley`s mind lurches into hypotheticals, he could, -heavens,- he could trace his thumb over the threadbare hemming of his sleeves... He could draw the pads of his finger over the bones of Aziraphale's wrists, over the ridges of his knuckles and soothe the thin skin between his thumb and his forefinger. if he concentrates hard enough, he might even be able to feel the thrumming pulse of life beneath skin He might move closer and as if compelled their hands would draw nearer until they were clasped tightly. Aziraphale might even give his hand a quick squeeze of reassurance, accompanied by a shy, dashing smile. 

He can imagine slipping into the angels grasp, hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder. Sitting at their bench in St. James Park or dining at their favorite spot at the Ritz. Just the two of them, right in the open were anyone could see. He imagines leaning over right now and stilling Aziraphale’s anxious hands.

Emboldened by alcohol, his fingers creep the last few inches until they are gently curled atop the angel`s.  
There is something transcendent about holding the angel’s hand in his, of fitting himself between the spaces the angel has left for him.  
The thrumming fills his chest, brilliantly large and warm

His mouth opens and then closes quickly.

_What was there to say? I saw your book shop burning to the ground and I thought I`d never be whole again? That instead of trying to save the world from destruction, I drowned myself in alcohol in the hopes that the flames would burn me faster?_

“I thought you were gone forever, “ He blurts out instead, with a voice that cracks in all the wrong places. 

Aziraphale`s expression softens all at once into an expression of such genuine fondness that his chest aches. Crowley rubs at it absently.

“Oh Crowley, I know, but I am alright now, ”

Aziraphale delicately leans forward, gently prying the bottle from Crowley's other hand setting it carefully onto the floor.“-We are both going to be alright”

  
There is a soft something that feels suspiciously like hope, twittering in his chest. He does his best to smother it.

Crowley smiles something far too open and far too drunk to care. Aziraphale smiles back and gives his arm a gentle pat. He feels undone. It`s been 6,000 years of accidental touches, of brushing shoulders as they parted. Of burying their desires between lines upon lines of careful subtext.

holding hands shouldn’t be the thing that undoes him but Crowley feels such a brightness in his chest, that he`s worries absently, that Aziraphale will see it through the cracks in his skin.

when he looks up to check, he instead sees the fading patches the angel is worrying into his vest, further damaging the velveteen trim.

His floating mind stalls, transfixed by the movement. His eyes wander from the angel's blue eyes and then slightly lower, to the curve of his lips, worried between teeth. Hesitation stands like a wall between them and Crowley can`t seem to stop handing him bricks. 

It is a surprise to both of them when Crowley leans in for a kiss and Aziraphale turns his chin at the last moment. Crowley's lips brush against the corner of the angel’s mouth, before shifting to kiss him fully. Azirphales arm comes up to push him away- but instead, he rests it against Crowley`s shoulder.

The kiss is surprisingly soft and gentle, little more than the meeting of mouths for all the destruction it could cause if heaven or hell ever found out. But the pressure is reassuring and warm - Crowley makes a grunt of disappointment when it is gone.

He leans forward to chase the angel's retreat but Aziraphale`s eyes are locked on the floor, wide and more frightened then Crowley`s ever seen. Mouth gaped and breathing unsteadily.

Crowley`s smile collapses. _I`ve made a mistake._ Crowley realizes too late in dawning horror. _I`ve gone too fast. I`ve ruined everything._

Aziraphale looks afraid, blue eyes wide as he draws in quick, erratic breaths,. 

“It`s alright, Angel” he chokes out and clears his throat around the panic lodged there..  
“-Just got a bit carried away with the wine is all” Tears threaten to blur his vision so he wills them away along with the alcohol in his system. The jarring sensation of sobriety hits him like a punch to the gut as he stands on unsteady feet.

“Well, I `suppose this is good night,” He says in a rush, stumbling for the door. He may be sober but his feet have never really grasped to the whole ‘walking like a human thing.’ Aziraphale rises up off the couch, a look of confusion crinkling the lines above his brow.  
“Dear? What -Wait!-“

The bell above the door chimes in alarm as Crowley shoves past it. the sky is dark and it`s pouring because of course it is. But at least it covers the shameful tears prickling the corners of his eyes  
Cursing, his fingers fumble with the handle of the Bentley just as the lock engages with a rebellious ‘click’ Crowley continues to growl and threaten and plead but the door refuses to budge.  
The angel’s footfalls sound urgently as they stumble after him.

_This is too much_ he thinks with the determination to leave before this becomes another 1862, he doesn`t think he can survive another 100 years of radio silence.

He presses his forehead into the cool glass and lets out a groan.  
A warm hand rests upon his shoulder and without really meaning to Crowley stops breathing.  
“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale pleads.  
“What do you want angel? I can`t, I can`t do this- “  
Aziraphale cuts him off by wrapping himself around the demons back. His body warm and strong, shielding him from the worst of the drizzling rain. Without meaning to he leans into the heat of him. e wonders if Aziraphale can feel the way his heart is pounding against his chest.

“Come back inside, Please?” Aziraphale whispers, forehead pressing into the demons back.  
Crowley draws in a completely unnecessary breath and turns to face the angel.

Hesitant fingers reach for Crowley`s glasses, stopping just before he reaches them  
“W-would you mind terribly if I removed your glasses, my dear?” He requests.  
Wordlessly the demon reaches up and slips his sunglasses off tossing them over his shoulder and into the hedges. Aziraphale reaches up again, cupping the demons face between his palms. There is a softness in the angels’ eyes and Crowley doesn’t think he could tear himself away even if he wanted to. They are kind and blue and they search him with such intensity that his hands itch to reach back into his pocket to cover his eyes again.

Aziraphale leans forward and rests his forehead against Crowley`s and Crowley freezes. Aziraphale is warm and close and he`s initiated this. He feels like, like safety, like Crowley never wants to leave as he gently rests a hand behind Aziraphale`s back and takes in the smell of Aziraphale. _Old books and earl grey tea and something sweet and overwhelming like home._  
“Crowley?” Aziraphale says unmoving.  
So Crowley swallows and whispers "yes, Angel?”

Crowley is afraid if he moves at all that the spell will be broken, that his angel will pull away in embarrassment, or worse maybe he`ll disappear for a few decades and they`ll have to add this to the list of things that lies between them they refuse to acknowledge

"I`m sorry" 

Crowley frowns in confusion and opens his mouth but is quickly silenced by the angel lifting a finger to stop him.

"I am sorry, because I should have been honest with you" 

"about us not being friends?"

The angel let out a huff. "Well, certainly that too...But what I mean to say is that-" He paused, taking a breath to ground himself. “-I do believe I`m ready now, Crowley,” Aziraphale says with a hesitant smile.  
“what are you saying,” Crowley asks slowly, tongue feeling dry and impossibly heavy in his mouth. 

“Crowley, I-“Aziraphale swallows and Crowley can’t resist peaking up at his face. His eyes are shuttered closed as one of his hand restlessly strokes the hair at the nape of Crowley`s his neck  
“I -think”  
He clears his throat and his second attempt sounds stronger  
“-Crowley, I`m ready now,"Aziraphale says, drawing back.

Crowley stares back in fascination at the giddy blush pinking the angel`s cheeks.  
“-and I would very much like for you to stay” Aziraphale continuous, carefully annunciating every word. Crowley nods dumbly.  
“and you don’t have to leave again, not unless you want to”  
Crowley pauses, because it sounds like-. “What are you asking me?” he pleads, there isn’t much point in pretending he's above pleading at this point, he`s always worn his heart of his sleeve where Aziraphal`s concerned. -"I need to know exactly what you mean."

The angel cleared his throat again and pointedly took Crowley’s hands in his.

“I want you to stay” “-With me” he clarifies.

Crowley feels like the air has evacuated his eyes and the sound that leaves his mouth is more of indrawn hiss of air than a human sound. Mistaking his reaction, Aziraphale`s eyes light up in mortification.

“-That`s only if you want to of course!” he clarifies quickly. “-and I`m certainly not asking you to get rid of your flat! It would probably be good for us to keep our own places” the tips of his ears redden fetchingly, Crowley notes. “-But maybe we could find a place to meet in the middle? settle down somewhere quiet, somewhere in the country with a garden and a place for my books...” He finishes wistfully. 

“Forever?” Crowley repeats slowly

Aziraphale nods. "For as long as you like, my dear"

Crowley smiles, “I heard the South Downs is nice this time of year.”

-Fin-

[1] With a few exceptions. After Adam restored the world, he saw it fit to make a few improvements. This became apparent once the two had sat down with a bottle of what had once been a vintage red from the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, now found itself miraculously transformed into a very expensive grape juice.

At the time both supernatural beings had been understandably dismayed -it was an awful waste of a good vintage after all- but considering that Adam had saved the world, Aziraphale decided that he could be forgiven, this once.

[ ▲ ]

**Author's Note:**

> Extra bonus points to you if you know what the pink Camellia symbolizes~
> 
> <3


End file.
